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Fencing thus, neither sure of his adversary, they
now made their way to one of the larger saloons, which
ordinarily was devoted to those who preferred to smoke,
mayhap to chew, perhaps even to do worse; for the
door leading to the bar-room of the boat was near at
hand. A darky boy stood grinning, arranging a
table, offering cards and tobacco in a tempting tray.
The two drew up leisurely to the table, and presently
were joined by the gentlemen whom Dunwody had mentioned.
For the time, then, as two of the four reflected,
there was a truce, a compromise.

CHAPTER IV

THE GAME

They made a group not uninteresting as they gathered
about the table in the deck saloon. The youngest
of the four received the deference generally accorded
the uniform he wore, and returned the regard due age
and station in the civilian world. For the moment
rid of one annoying question, he was quite his better
self, and added his quota in the preliminary badinage
of the game. Across the table from him sat Judge
Henry Clayton of New Madrid, a tall and slender gentleman
with silky white mustaches and imperial, gentle of
speech, kindly of countenance, and with soft, white
hands, whose long fingers now idly raised and let fall
some of the parti-colored tokens of the game.

[Illustration: They made a group not uninteresting.]

At Clayton’s side, Dunwody, younger, larger
and more powerful, made something of a contrast.
Both these gentlemen had removed their coats and
hung them across the backs of chairs, evidently intending
a serious session. In this procedure the last
of the party now followed suit,—­the Honorable
William Jones, state senator from Belmont, Missouri.
Seating himself, the latter now in turn began shuffling
a pack between fingers short, puffy, freckled and
experienced. His stooped shoulders thrust forward
a beardless round face, whose permanently arched eyebrows
seemed to ask a continuous question, his short, dark
hair receded from a high forehead, and a thick mid-body
betokened alike middle age and easy living.
A planter of the back country, and a politician, his
capital was a certain native shrewdness and little
else. Of course, in company such as this, and
at such a day, the conversation must drift toward
the ever fruitful topic of slavery.

“No, sir,” began the Honorable William
Jones, indulging himself in the luxury of tobacco
as he addressed his companions, “there ain’t
no doubt about it. Us Southerners orto take all
that new country west of the Missoury, clean acrost
to the Pacific.”

The older gentleman smiled at him. “You
forget California,” said he. “She
is already in, and free by her own vote.”

“An’ a crime aginst the natural rights
of the South! Sir, the institution of slavery
is as old as history. It is as old as the first
settlement of agricultural man upon one piece of ground.
It’s as old as the idea of sovereignty itself.”